Morticia’s mum, a rather ageing Goth rocker who had for much of her child’s formative years laid claim to being the recipient of an immaculate conception, returned to bed carrying with her the last tub of yoghurt which was by now two days past it’s sell-by – she had excruciating thrush.
“Don’t forget that I need that carton for my art project will you mum” Morticia reminded her as they exited from facing doorways at respective ends of the kitchen.
Morticia was a sucker for breakfast television, in truth she was hot for Dr. Hilary who led today’s topic of discussion after receiving an e-mail from Lucy in Basingstoke proposing the idea of a convention for unitising packaging used in home medical treatments.
This idea was inspired after the said Lucy had found herself reaching out blindly into the bathroom cupboard early one morning and while still under the influence of the previous night’s consumptions, had subsequently applied Fiery Jack, a treatment for rheumatic ailments, to her hemorrhoids which had in turn created a rather disgusting blood bath and for which she was now awaiting a referral to a specialist for trauma therapy.
Morticia who had in reality been conceived late one drunken stupour some 22 years prior as her mother had crossed the local cemetery in true Goth style before collapsing under the headstone of Wojtczek Falloffski a Polish dissident from the peoples’ uprising of Shitholovitz 1962, snapped suddenly from a pre-menstrual drift at the realisation that the 8.00 a.m. headlines were now being announced.
She needed a man and as her thoughts raced from blood baths, to Tampax, to applicators, to plastic objects, to yogurt cartons, to art projects, to art teachers, Morticia could feel her cheeks ignite concurrent with her monthly reminder of womanhood.
Though some years her senior, Trevor her art teacher, had that certain sense of understanding that seemed to elude her with her peers albeit that Morticia would be the first to admit that her deprivation of fatherly guidance throughout her formative years might well also have been a contributing factor of her increasingly fatuous attractions.
She had become prone to drooling in his direction and was often to be observed with her chin rested firmly on the lid of a chocolate milkshake, currently on special offer when purchased along with sago and savoy cabbage dumplings in the college’s canteen, visualising imaginary love hearts, each with his name embossed and representative of another reason why they belonged together and which included certain distinct physical likenesses that had upon occasion, inspired her to wonder whether there wasn’t also some ‘Floydian’ connection.
By the time she had settled herself in class that morning, Morticia was feeling positively miserable, her cheeks were burning and sure enough in the scramble to find her necessities before leaving the house, she had completely neglected to collect the yoghurt carton from her mum.
This was indeed good fortune for her mother, who had somewhat unwittingly split the side of the carton while gripping it between her teeth at the same time as attempting to apply large handfuls of its contents to her lower regions.
Consequently she had somehow managed to coat her rather plentiful breasts with ice cold delight and experience the nearest thing she’d had to an orgasm for some time which did nothing towards curing her irritation, but rather provided a most pleasurable distraction before she had eventually turned back onto her side and fallen asleep once more – she had never been a morning person.
Trevor was not at his best in the mornings either and upon observing that Morticia was only one of several students who’d neglected to bring with them the required implements for the project as was discussed during their last workshop, he instead decided to go with the lethargy and share with his students a story from his past that had been reminded to him as he’d sat demolishing his coco pops in the company of Dr. Hilary about an hour and a half before.
Morticia smiled, they were made for each other she mused at hearing Trevor introduce the topic as she had herself witnessed it on the breakfast time show and for him to then go on to explain what he claimed to be a very similar though quite different event which he had lived through some twenty-something years prior.
It had been a weekend night and shortly before leaving to meet with friends, he had rushed to the mirror in the hall hoping to calm his fly away blonde locks by applying a dash of his father’s hair cream though, as his eyes had met with his image, he had been somewhat astounded to observe that he had adopted a black streak and with further observation had realised that it was in fact a tin of boot polish that he’d mistakenly acquired in his rush to ready himself.
He’d panicked and upon locating the cream that he had originally sought, decided to mix a cocktail which he then applied throughout insisting to the mockery of his friends some time later that he’d meant for it to happen all along and was simply trying out a new look.
Walking home some hours after this and deciding, perhaps against his better judgement to take the short cut through the local cemetery, he had been accosted by a rather drunk and vulgar woman who had believed him to be a member of her own genre of friends and judging from her attire, these would have been followers of Gothic culture who were prone to dying their hair black.
Having caught him off guard, this woman then proceeded to pin him to a grave stone, tear off most of his clothes and all but rape him and though he is now prepared to accept that he didn’t exactly make any particular effort to restrain her, it did, for quite some time after, cause him to severely question his sexuality in no small measure.
Upon arriving home and still feeling quite traumatised by the event, Trevor had then decided that he must take a shower and as he had turned his back to the mirror in order to inspect the grazes that were by now stinging quite badly, he had noticed that across his shoulders in all but perfectly embossed Times Roman, was the name “Wojtczek Falloffski”.
By way of a conclusion, Trevor confided that although he had never quite resolved his sexuality issues, he had as a direct consequence of this incident, spent much of the last twenty years of his life specialising in typography, print mediums and formats whereas Morticia had spent much of the last twenty minutes of his class resolving herself to the fact that she simply couldn’t stomach any more college canteen dumplings while in her current state.